


To Be Fearful Of The Night

by mycroftgetoffmysheet



Series: Within My Heart and Between My Ribs [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Afghanistan, Angst, BAMF John, Daddy John, Death, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, I Don't Even Know, John in Afghanistan, Kid John, M/M, Nightmares, Parentlock, Post Reichenbach, Pre and Post Reichenbach, Prelude to parentlock, War, and then sherlock decides to show up, arabic, but then gets better, john is depressed, soldier John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-27
Updated: 2013-03-27
Packaged: 2017-12-06 15:53:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/737454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mycroftgetoffmysheet/pseuds/mycroftgetoffmysheet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even though he hasn't seen the battlefield in nearly six years (whether it be in London or otherwise), every night John Watson still goes to war.</p><p>So why, then, is he not afraid of the dark?</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Be Fearful Of The Night

"Though my soul may set in darkness,

it will rise in perfect light;

I have loved the stars too fondly,

to be fearful of the night.”

― Sarah Williams

 

* * *

 

"Ah, Dr. Watson, I should thank you for coming.”

From inside a sleek, black Jaguar XJ parked at the other end of a dimly lit warehouse, John Watson pinches the bridge of his nose. His head throbs at him angrily, and he laments over the fitful night's sleep he'd had the night before.

 _Yeah, last night and every night for the past six years,_ he thinks bitterly as the familiar woman sitting next to him finally looks up from her phone and quirks up an eyebrow in mild amusement.  John tenses his jaw refuses to look at her.  He may have thought her attractiveness was intimidating before, but now her presence was just plain irritating.

"You know _Anthea_ ," he says, "mocking me isn't going to make me get out of the bloody car, so why don't you just go back to texting treaties to the Prime Minister or whatever it is you do on that thing."

She scoffs, looks back down at her phone, and continues typing.

"Nice to see you again too, doctor" she says, her purring voice dripping with sarcasm.

 _Well, sod her_.

 

He is well aware that deducing the situation is completely unnecessary.  Unwelcome surprises have been such a frequent occurrence in John’s life these days, that he very rarely allows himself to succumb to the comforting warmth of denial- even though the temptation sits at the edge of his mind like a discarded blanket.  The reality of the situation is unappealing, yes, but he’d much rather face it sooner rather than later when It’ll just be harder to accept.  He never has been one to wade in slowly just to get used to the temperature. 

This time, however, he finds himself wanting to be somewhere else so badly that he actually closes his eyes and wills himself awake, although he knows exactly where he is, to whom the voice coming from the pretentious looking chair meant to look domineering in the middle of the empty room belongs to, and that he is undoubtedly _not_ asleep.  He has yet to make a movie to exit the car, though.  For some reason he thinks there's still time to try and fool himself into thinking this is only a dream (or, let’s be honest, a nightmare).

John Watson is a sensible man, so if he hesitates, it’s because he’d rather be thrashing violently in his bed _alseep_ having an actual nightmare rather than stuck in this waking one having just been kidnapped by Mycroft bloody Holmes for the first time in almost six years.

Nearly six years, and John has barely even caught a wiff of the man, (and not that John is particularly _sorry)_ since his pathetic attempt to apologize on the morning that his own bloody _brother_ was to be put into the ground. Not that Mycroft didn't try, of course.  John had just become an expert at knowing when the eldest Holmes would be most likely to try and contact him, and would remember to be hyper concious of CCTV cameras and lurking vehciles for a few weeks. 

In fact, he really should have known Mycroft would be on the prowl.  It was, after all, the 6 year anniversary of his brother's death.

That, and John may or may not have done something unusually uncharacteristic that may have spiked the man's interest.

 

He straightens his shoulders, takes a deep breath, and steps out onto the cold concrete floor.

 

\--

 

John remembers Mycroft's apology- or what he refers to as "hell freezing over"- as being a rather short and (for Mycroft, at least) unsuccessful event.

Now, to _whom_ exactly that posh-git was trying to make amends, John could not be certain.  However, you didn’t have to be the former blogger-in-residence to the world’s only consulting detective to deduce that it was probably not (and most definitely should not have been) John Watson.

Nevertheless, Mycroft’s apologies fell upon deaf ears. 

John vaguely remembers having the nerve to laugh at the man before he bravely suggested that the bastard “bury his apologies alongside the brother that he betrayed”. 

_“Maybe the two of them could have a joint funeral.” He spat. His words tasted more bitter than venom._

He regretted it immediately of course, but only because he knew that if he had allowed anything even remotely related to Mycroft besides Sherlock himself to be entombed with the detective in such a permanent manor, the stubborn genius would have haunted John for all eternity. 

Even if he considered his body to be “only transport”.

The thought made something inside his chest clench.  Because even if he believed in the supernatural and Sherlock’s ghost did miraculously show up, hell-bent on pestering him forever, John knows that he would never complain if It meant that he got to see his best friend again. 

Or at least, he couldn’t complain as much as he would if the man was actually still living.

Mycroft’s face turned to stone.  He cleared his throat and continued his speech.

 

_“You cannot begin to understand how much I regret what my actions have led to…”_

 

His face was so tense with frustration, John almost felt bad for the poor sap.  He looked like he was about to lay a damn egg.

Instead, John wondered idly if Mycroft would try to punch him.

 

About midway through Mycroft’s monologue, John allowed both his pride and remnants of loyalty to steer him out of the flat before his festering temper decided to make an appearance and Mycroft ended up with a bleeding lip. 

Two hours (or maybe three, John lost track), three beers, and fifteen missed calls from Harry and ten from Mrs. Hudson later, and he finally decided to return to 221B to get ready for the funeral.  He called Mrs. Hudson back first, and after listening to her strong opinions about his manners for a few minutes; he feebily asked her if the coast was clear. 

She let out an exasperated sigh that would have put one of Sherlock’s to shame.

_“Yes, John, the coast is bloody clear!”_

_She hung up._

 

\--

When he arrived back at the flat he plaintively ignored Mrs. Hudson’s insistences that he was just being silly and stubborn.  Instead, he began the process of ironing out his suit.  The suit he would wear to see the most brilliant, fantastic, and most impossible _prat_ that he’d ever had the honor of knowing- above ground for the last time before he was lowered into a hole in the ground.

Then, the same thing that happened that always happened.  Sherlock became part of the earth.

He slowly rotted and stunk and decayed just like any other bloody thing that had ever or will ever die.  

John had accepted it.

 

\--

 

There is a phrase used during the ritual of Ash Wednesday in the Roman Catholic Church that his Father said to him one evening when he and John came across a decaying rabbit whilst exploring the small wooded area behind their home.  He was young, not yet the age at which boys started think that all-things disgusting are cool, and it was getting dark.  He remembers that his dad let him hold the flashlight.  When they came across the rabbit (which was at quite an advanced stage of decomposition and could barely be considered a rabbit by most people’s standards), John immediately cried out and reached behind him to grab the hem of his dad’s shirt.

After whipping around and seeing the rabbit, rather than console his mildly frightened son the elder Watson chuckled, and then said in a low, spooky voice meant to be comical:

 

_“Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”_

 

Now, John is not a religious man, and in all honestly the whole idea scared the piss out of him when he was growing up. However, after learning about the law of conservation of matter (matter is created from energy and changed back into energy through decomposition) he developed a sort of quiet fascination for the daunting phrase.  He studied rates of decomposition quite thoroughly and even got a paper published on it in med school.  After that of course, he was sent to Afghanistan, where men he barely knew as well as men he considered to be his close friends were transformed from flesh and bone and beating hearts to blood and mist; and yes, ash.

Then, on a cloudless night during a quick patrol through a deserted neighborhood on the outskirts of Kabul, John Watson got shot. 

 

First came the words.  They were thrown at him through a doorway- from the darkened depths of a nearby home.  They sounded pained; like the person saying them did not want them to be said. 

They were a rapid, tangled string of Arabic that John was given no time to fully translate (not that he could have).

He only understood the last part of it.  It was a phrase some of his buddies that had been stationed in Iraq (where Arabic was spoken more prevalently) taught him.

 

It was pronounced “layla sa’eeda”, and it meant “goodnight”.

 

After the words came the noise.  A loud, familiar _pop pop pop_ that was a lot easier for him to translate.

Unfortunately for John, less than a nanosecond later the force of a bullet ripping through him made coherent thought impossible, much less bloody translation.  He immediately fell to a heap on the ground, his eyes blinking in confusion as his mind tried to catch up.

When it finally did, John wished it hadn't.

It was chaos for a moment after that, but John was impervious to it while he laid punctured and bleeding in the moonlight.  He was busy imagining that his bones were on fire. 

 

_His skin started to bubble and crack apart and fade to black._

_But instead of blood, hot, scorching dirt and soot and sand and gunpowder spilled from his wounds like a dam had broken.  Billowing clouds of it surrounded him, filling his lungs and scratching at his bulging eyes. He couldn’t be sure if the distant screaming he could barely hear over the din of gunfire and panic was coming from him or from the swirling night sky._

_His vision began to blacken, but he did not blink or close his eyes.  He did not yield to the heaviness of the night.  He kept them burning and open-resolutely fixed on the silver, blurry ball of dust above him that he wasn’t sure was the moon._

_"Please God-" he pleaded through clenched teeth. Those around him probably mistook it as a groan- a last ditch effort to remain flesh.  John was not ready to turn to dust.  Not tonight._

_"-Let me live."_

_As he was slung over the back of a soldier he did not recognize and carried away from the scene, something else tickled the back of his mind.  It was breathy and persistant- like a whisper._

 

_A reminder._

_“Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”_

 

After that-after he was shot- fascination with the phrase was subdued into respect. 

Surviving a war made one wary of such truths.

However, watching a man such as Sherlock Holmes- the best and most dear friend John has ever had- being lowered into the ground led him to absolutely abhor the stupid words.

 

Earth to earth. Ashes to ashes. Dust to Dust.

It was always the fucking same.

Consistent. Reliable. Dependable.

Predictable.

 

To john, it was absolutely fucking _hateful_.

 

It was also just _wrong_ (wrong! wrong! wrong!).  The great Sherlock Holmes would not have done what he did.  He was the world’s _only_ consulting detective for Christ sakes!  He invented his own bloody job to keep from being _bored_.  He was an avid believer (and made it perfectly clear to John on a near-daily basis) that his death would be the end of everything.

The end of all hope for humanity, and the end of John.

_“Mark my words, John Watson, the day I die will be the day Anderson becomes ruler of the free world!” Sherlock exclaimed, motioning dramatically over the array of Bunsen burners and test tubes scattered and bubbling on the table.  As if he actually had to_ convince _John of how ridiculous that scenario would be.  As if John_ wanted _that greasy twat to be his leader.  As if John would rather follow that blubbering idiot instead of the great Sherlock Holmes._

_“Think about it! When and if I die, who will be around to examine and catalogue what the boring people overlook?  I can assure you John I am three more days of immersive research and an additional examination of the maximum hydrogen sulfide content produced by bacterial fermentation away from discovering an entirely new fuel source for compact motorbikes!”  When John failed to respond, he turned around and deduced that his friend was putting most of his effort into fighting back a fit of laughter rather than actually listening to what he was saying._

_“What the hell are you so smug about?” he huffed in annoyance._

_John’s smirk widened to a full on grin.  He nodded to the area around Sherlock’s feet._

_“The hem of your dressing gown is on fire.”_

_Sherlock eyes widened a fraction of a second before he resumed his annoyed pout while he quickly snuffed out the feeble flames with John’s favorite dishrag._

_John’s grin morphed into an irritated scowl._

_“You know, Sherlock, despite what you may think, you aren’t a fucking deity, and the bloody world isn’t going to stop turning for the rest of us after you somehow manage to get yourself blown up!”_

_Sherlock laughed mockingly, and John had to clench his fists to keep himself from punching the self-righteous bastard.  Even though John knew that he was probably right.  It was hard for him to imagine Sherlock sitting still, let alone actually_ dead _._

 _And when he tried, something very sharp and rough began to poke at the interior of his heart- a_ _s if it was trying to find the best place to escape when the time finally came- and panic began to surround it's exterior like enemy soldiers.  The feeling was quite uncomfortable, which made John certain he did not want to experience how it felt if what was poking around inside him ever managed to get out._

 _It bloody_ hurt.

_With a slight shake of the head that he knew Sherlock would have deduced immediately as a victory if he hadn't turned back to his experiment and had actually been looking at him, John put an abrupt halt to his racing thoughts.  He straightened up a bit, broading his chest as if the posture would give him strength.  The ache in his chest lingered._

_"Yeah? What's so funny then?" he snaps, snatching his singed dishrag from where Sherlock abandoned it on the table and turning it over in his hands.  It had been the softest one, and John always liked the little jars of purple jam that dotted the front.  But now it was all rough and the pattern was now being hidden by a large, plate-sized burn mark._

_It should have made John angry, but for some readon he just felt sad._

_His head snapped up when he noticed Sherlock had been quietly studying him.  The almost undetectable hard-edged softness in the mans eyes made the twinge in John's chest grow tighter. He tighted his jaw and raised an eyebrow in mock annoyance, and Sherlock quickly blinked and returned to his previous task, his gaze freezing once more._

_It was like watching newly fallen snow glaze into ice._

_When Sherlock replied, his tone was as superior and rude as ever._

_“Be serious, John.  You will have gotten yourself shot again or stabbed, or drop dead from a heart attack or some other dull infliction before I somehow manage to be killed!"_

 

According to Sherlock, John could not possibly exist in a world where he was not.  The man was selfish and narcissistic and dramatic, and this time- this time Sherlock Holmes did not get it right.  John received very little satisfaction from this particular error, however.  No, he had not been stabbed or shot or been struck dead by an aneurism or some other plight.  He was alive, Sherlock was dead.  That was the undeniable truth, John just had to accept it.

Something deep inside him pleaded,

_Just one more miracle, for me._

But he was not yet strong enough to bear the weight of it; not yet strong enough to edure the pain that would surely come if he actually spoke the words and was met by nothing other than the silence of death.

Not yet.

So with a reassuring breathe, he soldiered on.  He buttoned he straightened his obsidian tie, brushed a sad-looking gray hair off the shoulder of his slightly-worn suit jacket (he refused to even touch the new one Mycroft had sent to the flat the day before), headed down to 221A to collect Mrs. Hudson, and slid dutifully into the cab that would take him to bury his best friend.

 

He watched the trees dotting the streets rustle and sway, restless.

The entire ride to the cemetary, John pretended that he was the wind.

 

_Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return._

 

It was, John often found himself thinking in the months following the funeral, infuriatingly and gut-wrenchingly _dull._

His thoughts echoed through the walls of his throbbing chest, reminding him just how empty it was; causing him to wonder what had become of whatever used to reside there.  His actual heart was still there, obviously.  But there was _something_ missing- something important. 

As he drifted off into sleep later the next day (after not having slept for He wondered if it was possible he could ever get it back, or if it was to remain buried alongside Sherlock forever.

 

\--

 

The last night John was in Afghanistan- before he was shipped back to England with a hole in his shoulder and no clue what the hell he is going to do next- he asked his mate Amur “Murray” Reynolds, a tall, clever bloke who was with him on patrol the night he was shot and who was also fluent in Arabic as a result of growing up with an Iranian mother, what the man inside the house had yelled before John was shot.

Murray paused for a few moments to quietly search John’s face.  Then he muttered something that sounded close enough to what John remembered hearing- hesitating a bit before he finished with the part John already understood, “Layla sa’eed”.  Goodnight.

The shorter man leaned forward expectantly.

“Well Go on then,” He urged.

Murray took a sheet of paper from drawer in the bedside table of the dimly lit hospital room, fished a pen out of one of the pockets of his fatigues, and carefully wrote out something before placing it carefully into John’s lap.

 

John picked up the paper, studying the groups of curved lines and dots that he was not able to decipher.

 

اغفر لي، جندي شجاع.  
  
ليلة سعيدة.

 

Murray cleared his throat, then repeated the phrase, this time louder and more slowly.

“Agh-fr leey-a, jundi-shjo’a.  Layla s'eeda.”

 

John blinked. Murray regarded him warily. 

Or was it pity?  John couldn't really tell.  He didn't prefer either one.

 

“He said, ‘Forgive me, brave soldier.  Goodnight.’”

 

\--

 

From that night- the night that Murray told him what they meant- until the night almost eight years later when Sherlock Holmes came back from the dead, his shooter's desperate plea for forgivenes followed John Watson into his nightmares.

However, It was almost never the shooter that actually said them.

 

Now-a-days he hears them murmered in a deep, haunting baritone from cupid's-bow lips caked with crimson that brush against his crackling skin before he feels the bullets tearing mercilessly through his chest to embed themselves in the walls of his heart. 

Sometimes he's able to wake up before he starts to leak and turn to dust.

Sometimes, though, he isn't.

 

 _Layla sa'eed_ he thinks to himself before he drifts back to sleep and into another nightmare.

 

\--

 

Many miles away, as John bravely steps out to confront his brother, the younger Holmes plops down on a cheap motel matress, still fully dressed in clothes that are not even his, not really, and closes his eyes for what feels like the first time since he began.

He strides purposefully through the halls of his mind palace- slowly (there's no need to hurry, not anymore) and stands before the one door he has been pointedly ignoring for almost six years. He looks at it for a while, studying the familiar chipping black paint and slightly rusted knocker for a moment before sliding in a key, and turns the knob.

When he steps inside, he thinks of London.  He thinks of Scotland Yard. He thinks of Lestrade. He thinks of the lab at St. Barts. He thinks of Angelo.  He thinks of Molly. He thinks of Baker Street.  He thinks of Mrs. Hudson.  He thinks of Christmas and his skull and his chair and his experiments and his violin.  He thinks of tea and crap telly and loud typing and jumpers.

He is aware that none of it will be the same when he returns- that everything, like all things must, will have changed.  None of it will be the same.  

He knows this, because _he_ is definitely not the same.  Time has not been kind to the world's only consulting detective. 

 

As he finally begins to drift to sleep, Sherlock finally allows himself to think of John. Not-at-all-ordinary, brilliant, steadfast, stubborn, patient, John. 

 

Inside him, he feels a spark.

 

_Forgive me, brave soldier._

_Goodnight.  
_

**Author's Note:**

> In case you haven't noticed, I'm horrible about updating. Its hard for me to find time to write with classes and school things, so I make no promises on updating!
> 
> However, I do hope you enjoyed the first Chapter! This is my first time writing a larger fic, so comments/feedback/kudos would be nice!
> 
> I don't have a beta, so please excuse the grammar issues that are sure to be found.
> 
> Thanks!


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